


chances are

by Ryo Hoshi (Hoshi_Ryo)



Series: Rise Up [2]
Category: Homestuck, The Tripods - John Christopher
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Alternate Universe - War, Explicit Medical Terminology, Gore, Humans are Bastards, Implied Relationships, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Misandry, Misogyny, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Torturers are not known for being nice people, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoshi_Ryo/pseuds/Ryo%20Hoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with Dirk and John making a supply run to a nearby base, and John noticing the tortured, mutilated troll bound to a pillar in their common room.  Things snowballed from there...though really, nobody could blame him for what he did next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> And now we shall get trolls who aren't redshirts. Isn't that nice? Warnings: We also get not-nice people, mentions of past noncon of various degrees of pastness & of bad things done to prisoners. Also, for no particular reason I can determine, certain differences in cultural mores turn up. Insert Shrug of God here while I sit back to see who catches what.
> 
> There will be medical terms used in here. For the record: yes I know what they mean. If you don't, be happy and remain ignorant. My beta, who is into guro, was actually bothered by the descriptions gotten by looking it up on wiki. If you don't know the word, and find you cannot be content that it's nasty and Do Not Want, ask. I can possibly provide a less traumatic, or at least a picture-free, definition.
> 
> Quite a few of the opinions belong to the characters, and are not necessarily mine. Some are the result of the world this is taking place upon being quite different—the Tripod series was written mostly in the late 60s, for a young adult audience. Aside from what this meant for the page count they had to cram everything into, certain things could only be gotten past the moral guardians via leaving suspicious gaps.

♡

The worst part about the station they'd been assigned to was that it was too out-of-the-way for supplies to be delivered directly, or at least that was what Dirk's superiors had insisted to him at the start. It was, he thought, probably a huge pile of bullshit but calling them out on it certainly was _not_ going to result in improvements. Perhaps a piano if they thought it'd generate goodwill (even if everybody but John realized how _useful_ it was) but they still were going to have to go visit the station 'downhill' of them at least once a month.

It was mostly metaphorically downhill, though Dirk was relatively certain that it was at a lower elevation. It took the better part of a day to get there and back—if they made good time and started out during false dawn they could still make it back to their base while the last light was fading from the sky. The days were still getting shorter, though, and Yule wasn't too far off. Dirk was already less than happy about the visits, and it would only get worse if it became a choice between staying the night or traveling at night when the trolls would be more active. Dirk was not quite sure he wouldn't rather face surprise shitty murderclowns than a night with a bunch of humans that (probably) did _not_ want to kill him.

As it was, when it was time for the visit—and he kept his suspicions that they were supposed to bring supplies up to them more often than just hold it for pick-up to himself—he picked one of the other men to go with him. The choices were limited, annoyingly. After it became clear _what_ they thought about having women mixed in, Dirk really wasn't comfortable taking any down with him unless he had to—maybe Rose or Roxy, they could handle themselves, and Jade was fuck _no_ simply because he knew exactly how Jake would feel if his sister got hurt. Even if Jade could take care of herself. Jane...yeah, no, not even early on. But even so, as long as there were guys as options he was not about to do it.

So. Dave was really automatically off the list—not just nepotism but also the simple fact that Dirk knew Dave was the best choice to hold down his part of the defenses. Jake and John...well, he tried to alternate. Jake had been along the last time (and made the drive much more enjoyable even if the pick-up wasn't very) so that made it John's turn to ride shotgun.

Well, with John it was more riding sledgehammer with Dirk choosing to not think _too_ hard about how Egderp just didn't _look_ strong enough to swing his favored weapon, no less be able to swing it hard enough to kill trolls. Just because he'd seen, personally, how much that family could take didn't make it any easier to remember that they were deceptive solid muscle. At least Jane was _used_ to them forgetting that she was quite capable of holding them down with one hand—and it was not just her medic training at work _there_.

John had also, thankfully, shared Dirk's distrust more than even Jake did, even if Dirk was rather sure John would never be able to explain _why_ he didn't like them. It seemed simply instinctive, though it might also have to do with how skittish the one not-ugly one of two younger guys at this station was... Dirk knew better to ask directly, what Dave had said about John's protests on certain topics spoke volumes.

Still, when they got inside for the mandatory exchange of small talk and basic hospitality—he wasn't sure if the leader of this shitpile picked up on how Dirk's group felt about them, really, and he had always known the current state of icy politeness was not going to stand forever...

Dirk was so glad they'd never taken up this station on its offer of trading women, so nobody'd be related to anybody of the opposite gender. He'd not seen any of their women since then—and it'd been the last time he'd let any of the girls accompany them, too, nevermind that Jane was keeping herself back when they had visitors themselves. Dirk might not _like_ the trolls, might be perfectly fine with the whole 'fuck 'em and take their shit' plan, but torture? The one that was bound, naked, to the stone pillar by a bailing wire noose, wrists bound together behind him by the same, mouth bare of teeth and shield _cut_ away... Even without the dried fluids it was painfully easy to see _just_ what they were doing with a live troll. The color was disturbingly human—even at the raw edges of cut flesh, where there was no chance that time had altered the shade, it was a _human_ color of blood, not an alien shade.

Their leader—who had bad hygiene and an inexplicable conviction that he was Casanova's second coming given how clear it was that he thought he had a chance of sampling the Strider swag—misread his reaction. Dirk didn't pay close attention—he didn't even bother remembering this douchebag's name—just enough to give a polite fuck _no_ when it was suggested he try their toy, and keep attention on him.

It was really, _really_ obvious to anybody who knew John that he simply was _not_ going to leave even the enemy struggling to not strangle...and Dirk tried not to consider that perhaps it was piano wire. He wasn't really sure how to tell it and tying wire apart anyway.

But John could be sneaky when he wanted to be, applying his prankster's gambit to _useful_ ends for once (Jane's sexy applications were just _fine_ ) and...cutting the wire noose. Dave was right, John _was_ a derp. _Such_ a derp.

Though possibly a practical one, and really given how close these guys came to being wiped out on a _regular_ basis because they didn't bother fortifying their station like reasonable beings was reason enough to burn a bridge. But he didn't think John was going to manage to get the maniacal laughter right and Striders didn't do that shit.

He never thought he'd be _glad_ to feel the strange prickle-sting of murderclowns getting close enough for their chucklevoodoos to work. They didn't work too well on the humans—what with human being lousy targets, natural resistance for the win—but their captive troll? If John hadn't cut the poor thing free he'd have been much more quietly thrashing and it'd have probably been mistaken for him just having slipped down finally and strangled. Not that it looked like they cared one way or the other—and Dirk wasn't certain if he _ought_ to attribute that to their oft-proved stupidity or to one of their rare flashes of insight (friendly psychic fire was a problem the enemy apparently hadn't the _brains_ to consider such) that lead them to realize, admittedly _correctly_ , that their captive was not going to be a problem until after this attack.

Their supplies were loaded, and there really was no reason to stick around—Confed training was just as good about inculcating automatic positive feelings towards other units as it was at everything _else—_ so it was time to abscond.

Maybe they and the murderclowns would become a self-solving problem. Dirk knew well enough that their superiors certainly did not _have_ to route supplies through this station, and even if they _did_ it was unlikely that the trolls could hold the station—assuming they bothered to. Dirk kept up on the reports, and knew that however much _they_ might not like the cold, their enemy liked it even _less_.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Gamzee. Just...Gamzee.

♠

John still wasn't used to how _light_ trolls felt. He knew he and his cousin had more strength than usual—Jane even knew all the technical terms, all of them, for the mutations involved—and that someday he would be as strong as his father had...

At least the murderclowns were mostly interested in the station—and he felt a twinge of regret at having absconded without trying to help but he knew that his friends _needed_ to have these supplies, and this poor troll needed _out_ of there. At least he'd taken the chucklevoodoos in a way that meant he was easier to carry, not struggling. That'd have been _awful_ and he suspected Dave's Bro (and he couldn't help a twinge of envy there for Dave) would have not liked him getting himself _injured_ just to save one maimed troll.

It was not even like there was much chance he'd be kept alive. Jane certainly would do anything she could for him—she did her best to hold to the old code of the Ancients' doctors—but he might be too injured for the basics to be enough. While they _did_ have the materials for more, John knew well enough that they could not really afford to dip into the medical supplies _too_ much just to help save a prisoner, especially one who probably would cause more trouble if seen much while being hauled in for questioning than anything he revealed could be worth. If the cut edges of where the cartilage panel—the built-in pelvic shield—had been cut away were the worst injuries... There were no signs of wounds festering yet, so it might be alright.

Of course, this didn't mean he was _totally_ ignored by the murderclowns; he moved automatically to protect his burden and block one the club swung at them. He wasn't quite sure what happened next—he had been through _so_ many drills, and actual fights, that the fight itself was all muscle-memory-and-adrenaline blur mind on more important things like Getting The Fuck Out. He almost missed the surprise on the smaller murderclown's face as he must have finally caught a good glance at the body draped over John's shoulder and—he thought they didn't give a fuck about rescuing prisoners, really, so the calculating look from the troll on John's shoulder to Dirk fighting on to where the two of them were headed to the troll draped over John's shoulder, with nubby horns and glazed yellow-and-black eyes...

And then that troll's matching pair eyes caught him in a silent question-offer, accepted without hesitation because it felt _right_.

The clown's grin shifted a little, less maniac bloodlust and more something _else_ , and his (former) comrade _never_ would realize what hit him. Nor, really, did any of the others.

John was just glad that Striders took everything in stride.

It was not, quite, a mad scramble to get on the sled—wasn't much more dignified than that though—and get their newer friend a blanket to wrap around himself and their new friend. John wasn't quite sure what the relationship between the two trolls were though the body language was _disturbingly_ like how he was certain Dave be if Dave found himself among recently-enemies who were absconding with John in tow. The troll's purple eyes—one of the cleanest shades of purple John had ever seen in a murderclown, though this one seemed to have kinda _ragequit_ the whole murderclown gig—watched him for a bit through dark goggles as he worked with Dave to make sure that there wouldn't be any sudden passenger-ejecting and then the sled's motor turned over and they were going.

Trolls were always so _surprised_ by engines, like they'd never really _though_ about using machinery that way.

After a while and Dirk deciding they were far enough to turn the motor down to only a soft roar, the facepainted troll shifted a little, careful not to let the blanket slip off of the naked troll's head. “So why did you motherfuckers want to save Karbro?” he asked. John was a bit startled—trolls showed signs of having been listening to radio for a good while, enough to have picked up enough grammar and vocabulary for _their_ purposes anyway—but this was the first time he had heard one speaking English with all the rises and falls in the right spots, instead of all over the place or just plain _flat_.

And, alright, John felt relatively certain that if anybody had realized that aliens were going to use their broadcasts to try to learn to speak human, a lot more educational shit would have been broadcast and a lot less shitty popular music. He knew the Striders were into it—he heard their impromptu rap battles, and that was pretty much _all_ the rap he wanted to hear (plus some) after his time in that group home—but most of it...did not mean good things for somebody using them to learn language. So he would be best off keeping it simple; the shitty music simply would not have provided the vocabulary for talking about nuanced moral issues, regardless of if they were shared by aliens.

“We couldn't just _leave_ him there.”

This seemed to actually be enough of an answer.

♑

Gamzee shifted some more, getting more comfortable where he and his Karbro were on a pile. That was a bitchtits miracle right there, too. He'd heard a bit—miracles of being a purpleblooded motherfucker—about what had happened to his miracleblooded moirail. It was a miracle in and of itself that Karkat hadn't been up and culled for being a mutant, too, when it came time for them to all go, 'specially when they'd up and been conscripted early, some impatient violetblooded motherfucker not giving a shit about how she got herself a few fresh motherfuckers sending down a press gang. He'd had good friends, the best of friends, and connections; they weren't good enough to get him too far, couldn't protect him too much but certainly the suggestion that there was no good reason to cull him just then...not when he could still serve the Empire.

Gamzee ignored his voices when it came to the whole idea that it really the only reason it'd worked at all was 'cause all the bright motherfuckers knew that his Karbro was just going to get his miracle self culled before any Drones came knocking. That was just what the motherfuckers needed to be gotten thinking, that his miracle candy-red bro was worth giving that chance, and that they had run too much a risk _getting_ him—press gangs weren't quite (as the blind chika's warning put it) 1LL3G4L but motherfuckers what got caught doing that shit would find that shit was _not_ approved of—to just up and cull him.

Then he heard that the theshcutioner squad that had needed fresh meat—and Karbro had gotten his chill on finally when he learned they were going to let him get hisself on one, 'stead a' just up 'n' culling him—had run into trouble.

And those motherfuckers **just fucking ran out** on his Karbro **leaving him all helpless-like** not even bothering to cull him so **Karbro didn't have to suffer**...

The pale motherfuckers were looking at him a bit wary—oh, yeah, the chucklevoodoos and shit didn't _work_ on them—as his Karbro shifted a little, trying to purr (and that was a motherfucking miracle 'cause his Karbro hadn't reacted to _anything_ before, even if it was a shitty pitiful purr) and hands coming up to try to pap him.

Worked, too; he found himself okay with the smaller pale motherfucker coming closer, with some sort of tool out. He said something—and it was a miracle right there how everything they said sounded like some sort of freeform slam poetry just like their music did—'bout needing Karbro's wrists steadied so's he could cut 'em free.

Gamzee was careful, noticing that Karbro's wrists were all motherfucking cut open from the wire wrapped around them, what kind of sick motherfuckers _did_ that 'stead of just plain culling the motherfucker? Though it didn't look like they were going to just cull his Karbro so this shit was all golden—and with how careful the blue-eyed pale motherfucker was 'bout getting the wire cut and Karbro able t' move his hands without making his wrists worse, it looked like these motherfuckers were chill 'bout injuries and not so like t' cull a bro what got hurt.

He watched in fascination, shooshing his palebro diamondbro while the pale motherfucker poured something sharp-smelling over the weeping-bright-red wrists—from how his Karbro sounded must have felt like motherfucking fire, clear pourable miracle fire. The pale alien motherfucker frowned a little as Karbro's blood rinsed off, letting him see the wounds. Gamzee didn't quite recognize the word he used to tell the bigger pale motherfucker, but it didn't sound like meant shit you wanted.

Maybe this Jane motherfucker he was told to let have a look at Karbro's wrists would be willing to tell a bro what was up with that?

With the blood rinsed off, so's the damage could be seen nice 'n' motherfucking _clear_ there was no mistaking that the wire had cut his Karbro's wrist up all knife-like. Gamzee didn't bother even trying to keep from churring softly when Karbro tried to pap his face _anyway_ —it might be a motherfucking wriggler noise but he didn't care—and tightened his grip on his palebro's arms so's the pale motherfucker could wrap his Karbro's wrists. He didn't miss that the motherfucker's movements were deft and practiced, like this was the sort of shit this motherfucker did lots.

'Sides it wasn't like these pale hornless motherfuckers would know why he ought to be up and embarrassed for making little wriggler noises, 'specially as it made his Karbro relax and shit. That was one huge motherfucking miracle right there, even if the noises his palebro was making made him up and worried that he'd never hear his motherfucking yelling again, and that would be so motherfucking _pitiful_ even if his Karbro's yells made him just want to up and shoosh 'n' pap his best friend.

Staying all chill and shit was a miracle and all, and he had his Karbro to thank for it. Wasn't like their new brothers would up 'n' notice his chucklevoodoos easy and they were why he had his motherfucking diamondbro alive and a warm blanket—and these motherfuckers had the most miraculously fuzzy _warm_ shit they made it from—to up and wrap himself and his (naked, maimed) Karbro in, and the blackhaired one was offering him some more of the miracle shit for cleaning his Karbro's neck.

“I think he'd rather you did it,” the small bro told him, in way of explanation, and really he was all down with that shit. The motherfucker was even nice enough to tell how's a bro to use it best, so's to keep wounds from getting all pus-filled and rotty, and didn't even ask for the bottle of miracles back. That Karbro was going to need more of its miracles wasn't shit that needed saying, and watching the weird brother's fingers wrap more bandage 'round Karbro's neck—listening carefully, 'cause the motherfucker was _right_ 'bout this shit being something no motherfucker would want somebody not hearts or diamonds for him doing, and what with his Karbro being so motherfucking _tense_ , even with how much pity the blue-eyed alien bro was showing, Gamzee was down with the thought of doing it for his Karbro.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Tags for medical procedures and explicit medical terminology definitely apply here. Wikipedia has some rather decidedly graphic images; medical terminology exists in large part so one can be both precise and not have to think too much about it beyond Do/Do Not Want. Thus, it is advised that if you don't know a word...use a dictionary.
> 
> Those aren't graphically illustrated.

♤ 

Jane had been concerned from the moment word came in—passed along by Dirk, through Roxy—that the lower-down station had been assaulted by subjuggulators and they were bringing her a patient. She knew Dirk well enough to know that he would have said more than that her patient was going to need some sewing up, even if that was more warning than she officially had to be given. That he hadn't said if it was part of that station's unit, or—since they were closer to a village—somebody who had thought noon a safe time to visit since this group of alien invaders did not like sunlight, was worrisome.

But she did have her work, and as long as she did it well she didn't feel quite as guilty about letting herself be talked into letting her cousin be on his own in that group home while she apprenticed under a doctor. She felt responsible for John—their fathers had been close from womb to grave, and they'd grown up like siblings instead of cousins. The cheerful, optimistic and perky boy she'd known had gotten changed, and not for the best, while she'd not been there to be his sister (figure), and it was a mystery she half-wanted to untangle. If she'd been allowed to adopt him as a brother, if she'd heard the stories about that group home sooner or even before she'd been talked into leaving him there ('just a cousin' her _foot_ ) then…

It was good that she got warning like she did, though, since right now she was in no shape to be setting up surgery quickly. At least she wasn't tired _all_ the time anymore, that had been paradoxically exhausting. It was maybe good that they'd not—as there were officially _supposed_ to have been—gotten their time off at the end of the first three months, especially since having to decide where to stay would be a problem. Exploring together instead of picking a hometown to stay in might be fun, though, when they finally got their leave; by Jane's reckoning they had at _least_ a full third of a year due them, going by the promised thirty days block leave for every ninety they were stuck out in the mountains.

The original deal would have not seemed anywhere near as attractive if they had realized how likely it really was to get the leave promised. She wasn't sure she cared quite anymore either. The station was more home than anywhere else had been in a while, even if it was in—as Roxy so eloquently put it—Big Fucking Nowhere and the guys in the station downhill from them in every sense _except_ the supply chain were—as the boss put it when Jade was around—a bunch of blue falcons. Though, if it looked like there was a good chance that they might not be a concern anymore, which was…

She was _not_ going to say she was glad. Even if it was true.

Then…she saw her patient. She knew she'd sworn _not_ to refuse any patients, and she really would have expected her _first_ thought to be needing her to remind herself of that—not 'Do I have any anesthetics safe for use on him?' Jane had read the various papers published on the biology of the enemy, and thankfully the anatomy was close enough to humans with only some usually-minor details that on the whole she knew enough to handle treating a troll. She hadn't wanted to think too hard about what things were and were _not_ tested on trolls—there was absolutely nothing she knew of that had been tested on trolls for pain, for example, and she'd have to hope that surgery would be enough to keep her new patient alive. He looked _young_ , and his eyes were a strange color for a troll, the iris was _gray_ but she had no questions about his blood color, as it was seeping from his neck and wrists and his maimed groin.

She did not, on the whole, waste time talking, just ordering her cousin and the healthy troll to wash up—“and John, show him how?”—as she carefully, gently inspected the injuries. He'd need stitching up, and she would really rather try to save his hands as he was maimed enough _and_ it would be awkward to get him prosthetic hands unless Dirk was willing to take it on as a robotics challenge. But if his neck was deep enough to damage the important veins then that would have to be given priority…

And she would have to keep him awake for the whole fucking mess because _they never bothered_ finding out what was safe aside from the all-purpose ether that was, really, too dangerous for her to have on hand especially when there were known-safe alternatives _for humans_ that weren't as prone to exploding. She couldn't even, in good conscious, give him something for pain because…

Jane had never _thought_ really about the implications of the procedures in those papers—all neatly, carefully outlined, with keywords like 'vivisection' and the complete lack of mention of… If it wasn't in the procedure, it wasn't done. It was sometimes so _easy_ to forget that.

She gave instructions to the large-horned troll—and fuck all-out proper aseptic technique, she didn't _have_ gloves that were claw-proof nor a cap that could handle horns like his, and she knew enough about how strong trolls were to know she didn't have a choice about asking him to help treat his friend. He seemed happy enough at the idea of just working to keep him calm and _not_ thrashing while she sewed up his Karbro's wounds.

Neck first, she decided, and started work on unwinding the temporary bandage, ignoring the somewhat-catlike purr—even if it had hints of cicada to it, and a slight _broken_ undertone to it all like it ought to be smoother and easier to tell from a growl—coming from the other troll.

 _“ReLaX, kArBrO, mIrAcLe sIs iS JuSt gOnNa gEt yOuR MoThErFuCkInG WoUnDs aLl nIcE 'n' NeAt.”_ She didn't understand the words, didn't really need to in order to know that they were the same sort of reassurance humans might give each other. He kept his friend's head in place—Karbro, John said the patient's name was—and kept on purring, the chirring-creaky drone of their language interwoven as he presumably reassured his friend.

He was strong enough, though, that her patient wasn't able to struggle enough to cause issues as she started carefully doing conservative reconstructive work on the torn-up flesh. He jerked slightly—not as much as he might have if there hadn't been three rather strong people holding him down—as the needle slipped through flesh, with a soft not-keen noise of distress as her fingers shifted torn edges a little closer to stitch together. His luck had been mixed, the wire hadn't cut through deep enough around the blood vessels but she could see and even more feel as her patient made more noises—distress, pain, possibly language but she wasn't sure, the other troll seemed uncertain as to how to interpret them—and she could tell that his larynx had been damaged.

She hoped it wasn't too significant, she had seen the pictures and diagrams on the complexity of the troll larynx (more complex than the human, and she had nothing she would need to check it properly) and she would have been worried if she'd felt this in a human one. She'd gotten enough experience there.

It wasn't quite as bad as she'd feared—though the fascia was cut through and deep at points, and some damage deeper in was definitely not related to the wire noose, none of it had been deep enough to be fatal or even to _require_ more reconstruction than she felt competent to attempt. It was sometimes just hair's-breadth off from that, though, and she knew that some of it she would have to go the bandage and hope for a miracle route.

His wrists proved worse, in some ways. Whomever had wrapped them originally had chosen to bind them so most of the damage would be to the back of the wrists—which was deep enough that there were glimpses of off-white that she certainly hoped was not bone.

She was not going to be a pessimist, especially aloud. She didn't know exactly how much English either troll understood, and besides maybe their species healed better than Terran ones. It was not like anybody had done any research into that—specimens died on the vivisection table, by accident or design, or in their racked cage-bunks by neglect or too much damage or simply by their fangs ripping into wrists (darkly, her internal Strider said: no chance her patient doing _that_ ) and there was not quite enough interest in keeping them alive anyway.

Except she did want to keep this one alive, if not because she had sworn to help _any_ patient, never to only help humans, then because John wanted her to.

So maybe it would be enough to gently, carefully piece back together the layers of flesh enough so he might maybe someday have function again. Wrap bandages, let the wound heal some before working on the more superficial layers, splint—“It will be a while before he should try using his hands” she said and was glad John and the others didn't ask more—and carefully placed them down on the bed at his sides.

Jane hesitated slightly before moving down to the last area of known damage. It was clear enough to her what had happened—even if she had always been lucky enough beforehand for it to be something she heard of, instead of treated. And if she'd gotten to follow her dreams of being a detective she'd have gotten to be even more familiar with such, which…in the pit of her stomach, there was a vague indefinable feeling at the thought.

It was not a nice one.

The tone of her patient's friend's patterns changed, sliding to even more reassurance and soothing before. Karbro made a soft, keening noise—not, from the other troll's reaction, a normal noise for a troll to make—as she gingerly inspected the edges of the wound. Strange convergences made even the changes had a pattern, analogous to things familiar in Terran species' anatomy, even if some—like the horns—were unexpected in how they quite expressed themselves.

It was perhaps fortunate that she'd discovered a minor fondness for xenobiology—or, at any rate, the papers managed to be some of the most interesting things she had to read around here. She at any rate knew better than to bother checking if the prehensile penis was intact—it most likely was, the cut edges of what was, anatomically speaking, a circumcision were still healing. She didn't think anything could be done about restoring the sheath, though the poor thing was really quite fortunate that cartilage was as avascular in his species as it was in Terran ones. Besides, she felt it relatively certain that they'd have castrated the poor thing first, and she could see they were intact where the base of the sheath-and-shield would have been—he must have been too terrified to struggle and risk the knife slipping.

But that still left his nook, and some of the smears of fluids there were definitely the color of his blood. And fuck, this was going to be _extra_ awkward because of the language barrier. She'd seen mentions that trolls were not quite true hermaphrodites; the vagina was smaller in the males, certainly not large enough to comfortably handle…so the chances of internal tearing were very much there. She couldn't not look, and she should tell him what she's doing—and John only thankfully gave her a strange look when she requested the tools for a gynecological exam.

She explained in short terms, common ones—“just making sure he wasn't torn up inside”—and she knew from the blanch (so, trolls _could_ ) that her patient's friend understood, even if her patient did seem to be missing some of vocabulary involved.

She could tell from John's expression more than she wanted to know.

“I'm sure he'll be much more comfortable if you're not looking, dear.” And John made sure he wouldn't be seeing it, relieved.

Jane wished she hadn't had to do it, really. At this point she had all too good an idea what each little set of noises from her patient and the other troll likely meant—the soft keens of pain, the catches of breath, the efforts to reassure him that it was not another violation, not of the same sort, just a necessary step in making sure he was going to survive this.

She placed the instruments back down on their tray, speculum last, and went mechanically through the last steps—which she shortened to giving directions, really, as she didn't think it would hurt the patient to rest a bit before doing more than switching the sheets for clean ones and draping a blanket over him.

She needed some brain bleach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, clean-up time... I'm posting, in part because of comments, a side-story that overlaps/fits in between the first and second chapters. It's being posted separately because of its content; please take the tags seriously.
> 
> For the record: If somebody asks me a question about a story, either in the comments or on [my tumblr](http://the-ones-that-come-true.tumblr.com/), there's a good chance some sort of ficlet or a plain old answer will appear, depending on if my muse cooperates and if it'd be a spoiler. Some things I'm not sure I can really manage to include in-story, for much the same reasons that there are some things we only know about history because of rants against them.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Irony.
> 
> Sorry for the minor delay getting this up--there's a related story I've been working on, and the first chapter of that is nearly 3K words and still not done...

♥

Dave Strider was starting to give serious consideration to exactly what the fuck he was going to do once he was finally able to take his accumulating leave. It wasn't like he quite had much he wanted to do with it—but he had had _plans_ for how he was going to celebrate becoming a legal adult, 'fore he got told he was getting a special birthday present in the form of a conscription notice telling him to haul his ass in the morning after he turned legal. It was, after all, a major birthday; the day he turned 14 was the day it became legal and legit for him to do all _sorts_ of shit. Most importantly, it was the day he could do it and _know_ that Bro wasn't going to want to strife with him over it. He had only rather hazy ideas—get intoxicated and managing at _least_ one hot naked babe  & hot naked dude in his bed in the morning had figured into it. The only part of that which would have been weird (aside from having pulled it off) would be having gotten them both at once at such a young age.

Most people were not Striders, though.

The worst part of it being his turn to watch the perimeter's bots was that he had little _else_ to do but think about how crappy it'd been _before_ the bastard finally died—all that shit about being manly and not 'contaminating your masculine purity' by getting even a glimpse of the opposite gender. The fucking bastard had wanted them to grow up to be good little Separatist fuckers and Dave had been _so_ relieved when he saw proof it'd not taken on Dirk. Wasn't a weird religious fucker either, not that there was much wrong with 'em 'cept they had weird ideas, 'specially the groups that had started up since the Tripods left. He was pretty sure that the rumors 'bout there still being sects following the shit the Tripods spread, which had them as gods and shit, were just weird rumors, though. Nobody'd be that fucked in the head, right?

He'd been glad when Dirk came out to trade places—though he couldn't get more about the shit that went down 'til they both wriggled a break from perimeter duty (radio chatter was always a blend of code and meaninglessness) and could talk, 'cause while John would be off-shift with him this time…well, he knew full well that John just wasn't very good at remembering the shit that went down in a battle. After so long cooped up with him, Dave was pretty certain he found that one of John's more endearing traits, really.

He gave a nod to Jake and Jade—Jake giving his little sister a hug and a kiss as they traded off on who was lookout. Really, they were the sappiest siblings around. There simply was no beating them at sappiness. (He knew that they'd grown up with nobody but each other for practically as long as Jade could remember, and on a fucking jungle island at that.)

Jake walked in with him. He kept cool, observing Jake's subdued perk—well, he'd have seen the patient his bro and John had hauled in—as they reached the kitchen and Jane. She looked like she'd been through some really bad shit, and needed the careful hug Jake gave her. Dave politely played it cool, like he wasn't listening in as he retrieved a bowl for himself, seeing as it looked like it was going to be a stew night.

Watery stew, too.

The bits he caught of what Jake and Jane were talking about, about her patient's condition—were pretty nasty, though. He'd heard a few times of that sort of shit; wasn't something trolls did (they just plain didn't fuck around when it came to killing shit) but near the fringes of settlement… Dave knew some of the really rabid Separatists got nasty, and some of the shit you heard about what they'd do… He'd had the shitty luck to be there when one of his roommates did an acrobatic pirouette off the handle and into the deep end—a 10-pointer of a dive—when somebody got around to breaking the news 'bout his crush back home. He finished his 13th year of life with one less roommate and a newly-discovered appreciation of what really happened when a full-grown man…with a little girl.

…fuck, if _those_ assholes had been up to that sort of shit, no wonder his bro hadn't wanted any of the girls visiting, and was keeping him in the dark.

He was relieved when it shifted to the usual shit—how was Jane feeling, were her feet still aching (of _course_ they were), did she want some rest (at least his bro had figured out Jane got over _that_ hump months ago)…

Dave grabbed a spoon and started for the dining room—the kitchen table was never an option for eating, not unless you lucked out and were in there when one of their cooks _didn't_ have something in the middle of being made.

“Dave!” He stopped near the doorway, half-turning to let Jane know she'd been heard. “Don't be too surprised—the pair Dirk and John rescued are resting in there.”

Dave half-shrugged—why did she think she needed to say that?—and the answer came to him the moment he got close enough to see inside the room.

The dining room was the largest of the rooms they had set aside for living spaces—large enough that the table, with enough room for all of them plus a few guests, only filled about a third of the room. In the corner farthest from the doorway between it and the kitchen, the two smallest trolls he'd ever seen were curled up in a pile that…yeah, mostly was from the rag bin.

The one with the long, graceful horns opened one eye to give him a once-over and a _we chill?_ sort of look, or what Dave was going to read as one, anyway. He picked a spot at the table that'd let the wary troll keep an eye on him easily, and put as much of it between them as possible. “'sup?”

Ah, he'd read the troll right, or close enough. The sight of fangs bared in a smile didn't cause a twitch. “Just chillin' here, motherfucker.” Hm, didn't even have the usual weird troll accent, even if there was the sort of hum-buzz undertone that he'd heard in a lot of trolls, like voices heard over a radio when the signal wasn't coming through clear. It was weirder than the strange noises he'd been making to the troll in his lap. Dave couldn't see much under the cloth wrapped around the second troll, a peek of a nubby horn and a few stray locks—a bit of face, the rest hidden under…yes, that did seem to be John's old sweatshirt, the one that'd made it to the rag bin after that roving band of bandits tried to claim this place for themselves.

Most of the blood hadn't been John's. It did look like Jake had managed to get it all out, though, but the tear along the arm was bad enough that it was more use being saved to patch something else. (And Dave could still remember the look on John's blood-spattered face, the cheerful optimistic derpy grin looking all _wrong_ and when he'd asked John about his cut-open arm, the _surprise_ showing so clearly on John's face.)

There was a slight stir from Nubby, an open-mouthed yawn that managed to be somehow _worse_ than he'd have expected—empty gums, instead of fangs, and oh _fuck_ …

Dave turned his attention to the stew. It was good stew. The best stew. Really, when it came to cooking, Jane simply was the best at it. (But it was hard to convince his head that the soft rattling purr was just an engine his bro and Jake were working on, and he fled as soon as he could. Maybe he could catch Rose before she slipped in for her breakfast, and warn her?)

♋

The pile of blankets was _nice_ , especially after so long sitting out, naked and cold on a wire leash. This group of aliens seemed a lot nicer, and Pitying even had…well, if he'd been a troll Karkat would have been certain what his actions meant. He wasn't certain what it meant for these soft, pink humans.

It had been hard to believe that any people who could produce something as much of a trainwreck of a romantic drama as he'd listened to on his way to their shithole planet could be so…

But watching them, Gamzee's off-kilter purr reassuring (his ear against the indigoblood's chest, blankets wrapped to hide him), he thought that maybe, just _maybe_ …

Their hive was so much different. They didn't keep their females hidden deep within the hive—fuck, one of their women had actually done shit for his wounds, and it looked like body language was just as surprisingly similar as vocal tones, even more similar. Pitying had even helped Gamzee get the whole blanket pile thing set up in their shared ingestion block (he could even see the nutrition block and Medic was baking pie, how _weird_ they had pie) in a nice secure corner. Karkat hadn't been able to follow much of what Gamzee and Pitying had talked about. He'd dozed through much of it, right up until they were carefully slipping the stiff plastic device around his neck, Gamzee telling him it was some sort of fucking miracle shit that would keep him from hurting his neck more.

He wasn't really sure this wasn't a dream. Being warm and safe and comfortable, sharing a pile with his moirail…the unmistakable sound of Gamzee's purr (and fuck it Past Karkat, grub noises were _very_ reassuring!) and Gamzee's scent… He was not going to think of how such dreams usually ended, with King Shit or Prince Pail-slopover or Fuckass A  & B hitting him awake or worse not giving a shit if he was awake when they started.

…Besides, in _those_ dreams, he didn't hurt, his body was intact, and he could make more than sad little grub noises…

…and thinking about that had been a Bad Idea.


	5. V

♣   


\-- F2F connection established --  
\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering pythianMaiden [PM] \--  
TT: Good evening, Mlle Pandora—I trust that matters proceed well?  
PM: It's not changed much in the past few days. Mlle Chienne has been being a pest, but Mme has been treating me well.  
PM: If it wasn't for how he took to your boss, I'd hazard a guess that he finds albinos scary.  
TT: Life would be so much nicer if he did. Boss is rather openly not in the market anymore.  
PM: Yes, and I remember what he had resorted to the last time…  
PM: How are your guests, Mlle Rose?  
TT: I'm pleased to say that they've settled in well—considering. I know my dear sister sent in a private report for Mme, and I suppose you would have had a chance to look at it?  
PM: I sadly am not quite fluent enough in English to make reason of Boss's portion—it's a shame EB's reports are so…  
TT: Vague?  
PM: I am trying to be polite.  
TT: It's perfectly fine; I have told you about my and his cousin's suspicions.  
PM: As for the medical reports, Mme made good use of the Chinese-English medical dictionary she asked me to find.  
TT: I think you are likely happier this way.  
TT: You would, after all, be rather sufficiently aware of the things the more radical Separatists will do than most people.  
PM: M. Kex does not, it appears, intend to permit me to have the pleasure of that being forgotten.  
TT: A pity; it is not like you ever subscribed to LM's eccentricities.  
PM: Despite M. Kex and Mlle Chienne's efforts. Is there any news on how M. Goat and M. Crab are doing?  
TT: M. Goat has developed a surprising attachment to Mme. C and the kitchen.  
TT: It appears that pie is, somehow, a universal constant. As, strangely, is spam.  
PM: How unexpected.  
TT: Yes. Apparently it is not only known but they consider it some sort of comfort food.  
TT: Which is a rather good thing.  
PM: And M. Crab's condition?  
TT: He has healed with surprising speed, though it appears that there are definite limits to what can heal.  
TT: It appears, however, that he will have at least basic use of his hands back.  
PM: So the tendons did heal correctly?  
TT: Thankfully. I think M. Flighty would have been intolerable to be around if we had been forced to inform him that his damsel in distress might have been better off if he had lost more flesh.  
TT: I am not certain it would have been better or worse if it became necessary to amputate.  
PM: Afraid he might try to stop it?  
TT: Afraid he might have chosen to do it himself.  
TT: Do remember that he took discovering that some of M. Crab's injuries will be quite permanent terribly well.  
PM: Your sister's account was rather typical of her.  
TT: Did she mention the screams?  
PM: Yes. And feeling too sober for it.  
TT: Likely. M. Flighty had decided that teaching them a wider vocabulary was a good use of his free time before then.  
TT: He has shifted to putting emphasis on words of immediate, practical use.  
PM: Instead of the ones primarily of use if one wished to enjoy action films?  
TT: Exactly.  
TT: There is a chance we might be able to explain to him beforehand next time.  
PM: You might want to suggest he start teaching them the words that would be involved in explaining why they might wish to keep hidden for a while.  
TT: I understand. Anything specific?  
PM: Mlle Chienne has decided that he finds the reports of another scrap of human settlement being rediscovered worth his personal investigation.  
TT: Which may mean everything from him being skeptical to him simply seizing an excuse to visit.  
PM: Unfortunately.  
TT: I am quite certain that Mme. C and they will have little trouble staying in the room Boss, M. Tarzan, and M. Flighty cleaned up for the pair of rescues.  
PM: Good. Mlle Chienne does not seem quite the type to take rejection well.  
TT: I hope you keep a newspaper handy.  
PM: Wrapped around a metal pipe.  
TT: Effective.  
PM: But I suspect it would be taken as simply more flirting from Boss.  
TT: Unfortunately I think you would be correct. And with how much Mlle Chienne enjoys his knives…  
PM: I think he loves them nearly as much as his mother.  
TT: I am not sure how to interpret that.  
PM: He is very much a mother's boy.  
TT: Considering what I have heard about his mother…  
PM: The frilly dresses?  
TT: Yes.  
PM: Entirely true.  
PM: There are photographs.  
PM: Taken by the police.  
TT: I suppose you might be willing to share?  
PM: I might have electronic copies.  
TT: Thank you.


End file.
